


Homeward Bound

by agent_orange



Category: Firefly
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Origin Story, Poverty, Pre-Series, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-15
Updated: 2010-03-15
Packaged: 2017-10-08 00:36:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home, where my music's playing; home, where my love lies waiting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homeward Bound

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary from the Simon and Garfunkel song of the same name. Section headers from _On the Disadvantages of Central Heating_ by Amy Clampitt.

i. _strong-minded small boys and big eager sheepdogs muscling in on bookish profundities_

Shadow was exactly like its name: a wistful ghost of a possible future. The terraforming was a disaster, and no one lived there who didn't have to. He could've grown up on a worse planet—Mal's mama weren't rich, but she weren't poor, neither, and what she did know, she taught him real well. Forty hands on her ranch, and she was a damn sight better 'n all of them. He didn't grow up there (did that in the war); he wasn't sad to leave or to find out that it'd become uninhabitable.

He was sad his ma died alone.

*

ii. _as blue gas leaps up singing decades ago now_

Zoe's dad delivered her; the ship they were on didn't have a medic. He dad did a good enough job, and they kept on movin' once she was well enough. That was their life: trading on jobs on a ship for passage, making do with what they had. She'd been born into a life of hard work, but it never scared her. Zoe learned quick enough to keep her mouth shut and do what she was told, and that worked okay until the call came for soldiers and her parents told her she'd be crazy to go.

Crazy and headstrong.

*

iii. _delicious to think of hassocks pulled in close_

It was a rare day on Trill that the sky was a chalky blue-gray instead of dust-dusky brown, and that was when Wash had an epiphany. His cousin was a pilot, occasionally bringing home stories of worlds far away with sunsets and red skies in the morning. He'd heard the cautionary saying, but Wash didn't care what the sky was like, as long as he could see, travel the 'verse. He could handle a rough trip.

Flight school was expensive, but he paid his own way, working nights as a waiter and comedian.

It was worth every penny.

*

 

iv. _cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod stove-warmed flatiron slid under the covers_

There were pretty much two choices for girls on Fortuna: have kids, or be a teacher and Kaylee didn't see much choice in that. Her ma died birthin' her, so she grew up with only the influence of three older brothers and her pa. She hung around her pa's shop sometimes—he was a mechanic, mostly fixed mules, but she picked that up, and started goin' to the docks to get a look at the ships. They weren't nothin' special, and when the pretty Alliance cruisers came 'round once in a blue moon, she left for the nearest large port.

*

v. _damp sheets in Dorset, fog-hung habitat of bronchitis_

Verbena: called so 'cause of the purple-pinky flowers of the same name. The entire planet was like one gorram greenhouse for 'em. That was how the Cobbs made a living—selling _flowers_. Jayne's friends used to rip on 'im, call him a girl. The girls were Brett an' Andy, _not_ him. His sisters liked the flowers, but all Jayne wanted was a real job. Somethin' with good money, and some different girls to mess around with. Prettier girls.

He wanted out. Not a life in the Core, that's certain, but somewhere kinda respectable-like. A real, (sorta) honest life.

*

vi. _unfogged by mere affect, the perishing residue of pure sensation_

She was sheltered in the Training House, not that there was anything on Sihnon that they needed to be sheltered from. Nonetheless, there was high security and limited contact with the outside world until they reached age sixteen. Inara was kept plenty busy, anyway, (and she didn't have much family to miss) with classes and seminars and training sessions. History, art, politics, the ethics of being a Companion, prayer, philosophy... every last inch of her had been refined and polished and poured into the mold of something perfect.

Everything and everyone was perfect, and Inara hated having to be perfect.

*

 

vii. _the farmhouse long sold, old friends dead or lost track of_

Somewhere along the way, Book's past homes blended together, and the memory of his homeworld faded. He'd been a military brat; his father, one of the top officers in the Alliance. They'd shuffled from one world to another, sometimes taking up temporary residence on a border world or moon. So many people were starved there: for food, for hope, for _life_. He'd been young—twelve, maybe, and felt helpless to their suffering. His family wasn't wealthy, but they had more money than most people.

He gave all that up later in life. After he gained—and very nearly lost—everything.

*

viii. _mornings a damascene-sealed bizarrerie of fernwork decades ago now_

The heavy smell of ammonia would put off most people, but not Simon. Ammonia and latex were more soothing than any heavy, powdery perfume. Saint Clare's was home. The place where he could fix anything. Clean floors and sterilized equipment and white coats. Everything organized and alphabetized; easy to find. He'd literally had someone's life in his hands. He'd grown used to the steady buzz and kick of the defibrillators in his hold, the touch of steel gripped between his fingers.

River didn't outshine him here, although she probably could if she wanted to. She wouldn't. This was his forté.

*

 

ix. _waking in northwest London, tea brought up steaming_

Head in the clouds and feet on the ground (except when she was dancing). Not a dreamer, a planner; reclining with the ground under her back and setting up her future. And every so often, River would just lay back, staring up at the sky and gazing at the clouds. A little patch of wilderness smack in the middle of the overpopulated world; it was hers and no one else's. Everyone needed a private space to clear their head, reflect, _be_. The river rushed and she waded ankle-deep, lifting her skirts to avoid getting them wet.

She heard nature.

*

x. _what's salvaged is this vivid diminuendo_

Most things on Serenity don't work quite right, but neither do they. Everyone's a little broken, worn down by society and deemed weak for it, but the ships' walls are strong enough to keep them safe. A cradle for robbers, a place to store cargo, to rest, to eat, to be with like-minded souls. There are secrets threading through the frame, the wires; half-known or not known at all. Serenity gets hurt, Mal hurts, Kaylee and Wash fix her, healing the scars like Simon does, and Mal is as close to happy as Mal gets.

They keep flying.


End file.
